Set the fire to the third bar
by Miss-Rainy-Skies
Summary: Ally had been fully prepared to spend her first Christmas away from Austin... or so she thought. /"Austin, is there a specific reason as to why you're here in my apartment an hour before Christmas, eating the cookies I laid out for Santa?"
1. find the map and draw a straight line

**A/N: Sorry, I don't know what this shit is, but I got really sick and tired of seeing this piece of crap pop up in my folders. Also, this is a really long overdue Christmas/Birthday present for a particularly awesome dork. You know who you are. **

**This is cheesy, badly paced, OOC and to top it all off: unedited. I couldn't even read the entire thing over. You guys deserve better, my apologies.**

**There is no particular reason for the title, it just happened to be the song I listened to while writing this, and it helped me set the mood of this story. **

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_Disclaimer: I do not own Austin and Ally._

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**Set the fire to the third bar**

There's a flashlight left atop her dresser by the bed in case of emergencies.

Emergencies like, mysterious rustling coming from the kitchen slash dining area of Ally Dawon's apartment. There are really only so many instances where the songwriter herself would use the word 'mysterious' to describe a phenomenon, as usually there were perfectly viable reasons behind each individual case.

However, at this instant she can think of none to explain the source of the strange ruckus.

It couldn't be a wild animal as she is currently residing on the 23rd floor of a fairly decent building. Unless of course, it happens to be someone else's large, obnoxious pet rat who managed to gnaw its way through layers of wires and cement walls, which is also most unlikely. And there's no way a thief could manage to stealthily scale up the complex without getting tangled in the mass of Christmas lights her neighbors—as well as herself—had insisted on putting up around this time of year.

Yet the unmistakable sound of rustling was still there.

The game of mental tug of war rages on in her mind while the flashlight taunts her cowardice. The covers that previously offered her comfort and sanctuary all of a sudden feel cold and foreign to the grip of her clammy hands. She thinks she's deluded herself into hearing a relatively loud exhale, before she wills herself out of the bed.

Pacing the small area of her room exactly four times, she ultimately decides against wielding her mighty flashlight, remembering that a chain of Christmas lights on her tree would still be glowing (albeit darkly) in her living room.

Now Ally is usually all for conserving energy and reducing her power bills, but it is Christmas Eve, and she wanted her short little tree to welcome in the glorious holiday while she herself, would be snuggled soundly in her blankets. Seems like this is St. Nicolas' way of reprimanding her plans.

A period of sudden silence urges her courage, and she slowly pulls open the door leading to the hall before holding her breath. When this action is only responded by the still of the night, she bravely takes the tentative steps down the hallway.

The sight is uncanny. She is can't decide whether to be exasperated, or just plain baffled.

Who could it be, but Austin Moon? The teen heartthrob, singer extraordinaire, hunching over her pathetic tree, crinkling noises about; the very apparent culprit of the ruckus.

From the corner of her eye she can see his discarded jacket and travel bag, so elegantly tossed across her living room carpet. She rolls her eyes and clears her throat.

"So, is there a specific reason why you're here in my apartment an hour before Christmas, eating the cookies I laid out for Santa?"

Austin—seeming completely bemused and unalarmed by her presence—wipes the corner of his mouth, swiping most of the crumbs from his lips. "Santa's not real," he says absently.

"How dare you." She attempts to sound somewhat angry, or maybe teasingly insulted, but instead a tired smile stretches its way across her countenance. She had not realized how much she missed him, until she feels a similar wave of relief at his presence wash over her.

He turns away from the tree and breaks free of his crouching position, choosing to outstretch his rather long legs. He grins at her. "I think Santa is disappointed in how little amount of chocolate chips you were willing to spare at his holy expense." There it is. That charm and charisma.

He leans his head back far enough for a branch on her tiny Christmas tree to prick at his neck. If the notion is uncomfortable, he certainly doesn't make an effort to show it. Instead he just looks up at her, eyes blazing over her in a curious yet senseless fashion.

The smile spreading across her lips is cut short when she gets a good look at him. She hasn't seen him in a little over two months and she can't help but survey him; to again take every slight change in his sharp features, his askew hair of blond—probably ruined by the wind outside on a cold night like this—and his smile that somehow manages to look worn out and mischievous at the same time.

She tilts her head, sighing, because she can just never tell what he is or how he's still in her life.

He pats the space beside him, and even though it doesn't look all that comfortable, she scoots herself right by the tree and his right arm. Perhaps she's delirious from the surprise of his visit, because even with the fake evergreen digging into her hip, she swears she feels at ease.

Together they envelope in a brief moment of silence before she breaks the ice.

"Why are you here?"

He quirks his lips to the side, even pouting briskly before answering. "Can't I pay my good friend a visit on Christmas Eve?"

His tone is joking, but she's sure that both he and she are aware that he's on a busy schedule, and performing in New York during the biggest parade of the year, is tomorrow on that super packed agenda of his.

Also, even if she had claimed his presence relieved her, that didn't mean every second they spent in silence didn't bring out concerns building up inside of her. Concerns such as, did he skip out on a show to come here, was he having doubts about his music career—which is absolutely ludicrous, because the boy loves to perform—or the worse one being there is something terribly, terribly wrong with him.

"I got scared," he suddenly whispers. His bold comment catches her off guard, and she immediately whips her head in the direction of her blond counterpart to see his knees propped up with his arms resting on them, while his face is buried into the tuft of his faded hoodie. "I was debating whether to mail you your Christmas present or hand deliver it the next time I saw you, and I realized that… this would be the first Christmas we didn't spend together." His voice rang muffled along the worn out material, yet certain sadness was present. He never sounded more raw and vulnerable to her.

Of course she had realized sooner than him that this was supposed to be the first Christmas they spent apart. In fact, she had already sent his present in the mail two days ago, though she doesn't bring it up. But rather than break into his house and devour his Christmas delights, she had settled in adopting an attitude of jovial nonchalance regarding their distance.

Austin sniffles once quietly, and swipes at a non-existent speck of dust by his nose while she tries to distract herself from the scene unfolding in front of her by trying to remember when times were simpler. When she could precisely narrow down everything this boy beside her means to her a single label.

He shuffles closer to her. "You smell like autumn," he observes. His words stir something up inside of her, because he's said that to her once before, and she's still not sure whether it's a compliment or a plain examination.

"And you smell like a fresh summer breeze."

He laughs loudly; the noise causing her heart rate to speed up

He reaches a hand up to brush her cheek in an affectionate manner. "I've missed you." The heaviness in his voice succeeds in sending the butterflies that occupy her stomach fluttering into oblivion.

She gulps, feeling the presence of nonsensical tears welling under her lashes as she stares back at him, completely unsure of how to respond when the look in his eyes is so damn tender.

He breathes in silently, looking at her almost pleadingly.

That's when she realizes what he is to her. To her, he is a poem. A poem with slightly hued cheeks, crooked smile beaming, and eyes the color of promise. He is a poem to be murmured in the secret hours of a stolen night. One to be traced along the curves of her exposed skin with his slender fingers. She chokes upon this realization.

"You're supposed to be performing in New York for the big parade tomorrow night." It slips out as a slightly caustic comment, and for a moment the chestnut rings in his eyes expand to twice its size, and she almost believes he can see through her dark tangled curls and tight-lipped frown and realize how much she really wants him to stay.

Instead, he withdraws his hand.

"I'll leave in the morning."

She wants to place his fingers back on her face, to feel the heat they once resonated. She wants to belt out a harmony, sing him a list of reasons why they should be together, yet all she can do is bite back her tongue and grip helplessly onto the hand he retracted to lace their fingers together.

She half expected him to shrug her off, which is why she's surprised when he squeezes back tightly in almost a sense of meek desperation.

He smiles sadly. "You and me, we're nothing short of a calamity." He says this without looking at her, and she can tell he means it. She doesn't remember when he stopped being the bright-eyed optimist, or what time he started using words like 'calamity', but his odd demeanor and grief-stricken tone encourages her to contradict him.

"Nah, we're pretty okay," she says quietly, the only light in the apartment coming from the dim glow of the Christmas lights, and the glare reflected off the ornaments hanging undisturbed on the tree, and her reply is that of silence.

A part of her wants to move their reunion to the couch, or perhaps the dining area, where they could have a civilized conversation, yet Christmas is less than an hour away.

So she allows them to sit there motionlessly, hands intertwined, resting in suspended time, too afraid to move forward, and too persistent to take steps back.

Her, who smells of eternal autumn, and him, the poem she will forever attempt to decipher.

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**A/N: Gah, I warned you all. The sad thing is that I have a half written sequel about when Austin gets back from the parade, but I have a feeling it's even worse than this one. I could be persuaded to finish it though... if you guys like the crappy angst.**


	2. your words are like music to me

**A/N: Better late than never?**

**Unedited.**

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Her Christmas tree is once again tusked away. Now aggressively shoved into the limited spacing her storage compartment offered. The feat had not been easy, but she figured it needed to be done considering how crazy it was driving her just remembering the moment she shared with _him_ underneath that artificial stump of a Christmas tradition.

Instead of staring at the sorry excuse of a tree any longer, she moves to sit at her modest dining table with her chin resting on the back of her hand, completely motionless.

What an upgrade.

Incidentally, her unsettled insides contradicted such casual behaviour, embarking on a frenzy of hummingbird wing beats and ungraceful pirouettes.

Restless is all she is.

His performance at the Christmas Parade ended hours ago and she once again finds herself in the comfort of her dining chair, staring into the ever so consoling occupancy of nothing.

Is she waiting for him to call?

No, she decides. He wouldn't call. At least not tonight. Why would he? He had rid himself of his fears of abandonment by visiting her out of idle loyalty, appearing from out of nowhere, making her heartbeat match the drum solo out of a Led Zeppelin single before disappearing into the early hours of dawn.

Now he is back in his own world: one of whirlwinds, blinking lights, and Fourth of July fireworks large scale enough to blind her for days. And she is to remain in her own world of takeout food leftover in the fridge, little Christmas trees, and sad ballads played in the middle of the night.

A knock at her door halts her movements—or lack of movements, either way.

There's a decent guess on who could be knocking swirling about in her head, but she doesn't dare let herself have expectations. Then again, her secure apartment has only been breached once before, and that culprit had a habit of returning to the scene of the crime.

Ally hasn't been this nervous to open a door since Trish forced her into watching a creepy Dateline special on cults and murder. She shudders reminding herself of how frightened she had been to even look out through the peephole.

Thank goodness to say, it was not Charles Manson holding a chainsaw like she was afraid of last time.

With a heavy heart, she swings open the door to stare directly into a sea of chestnut.

He stands before her calmly, too calmly. His eyes are blazed over with his shoulders sagging back and broad, showing off his marvelous physique. He looks as if the brief seconds it took for her to answer the door had given him a lot of time to think.

Pursing her lips, she looks up at him unsurely.

He steps forward, entering her apartment without so much as a greeting. A sly smile stretches across his boyish features at the sight of her in a nightgown. In stunned silence, she takes a step back to make room for his entrance, but he chooses to step closer to her once again.

A beat of silence.

"I knocked this time."

It should be illegal for his eyes to sparkle like that.

The tips of her lips curve upward, because fight it as she might, his smile was contagious and she knows it. "I appreciate it," she whispers softly.

He chuckles slowly, and she manages to crack a weary smile at the sight. Her fingers brush at her hair in slight anxiety, unsure as to what to do.

He wasn't supposed to show up here. Well, he wasn't supposed to show up the night before either. But she really couldn't handle him at the moment.

Although his purpose for taking these trips may remain a mystery to her, his presence still means something to her. _He_ meant something to her. She would rather he not even show if she were just an abnormal past time for him.

Ally finally settles long enough to look at him: watching his pupils slowly dilate, irises darkening in resolution, before he finally cups her cheeks with the large palms of his hands and kisses her soundly.

Her eyes automatically shut upon contact, because holy shit. Austin Moon is kissing her. For as long as they'd been Austin and Ally, neither of them had ever taken upon themselves to being AustinandAlly.

Then, drawing all her strength, she wills herself to pull away, taking a few responsible, yet agonizing steps backwards. She feels as though her heart has just leapt into her throat.

The walls are spinning, her head is reeling. "W-wait…"

Disregarding her words he steps closer to her again, bridging the distance the product of all her self-restraint managed to build between them. Surprise and elation is still written all over his face, as if he just remembered how much he loved to kiss her. His fingers tangle effortlessly to weave through her dark tresses, and he moves in to repeat his previous actions.

"Wait—"she utters again, this time firmly pressing him back. Distance seems like the golden key to her sanity right now, and she's having enough trouble staying sane as it is with him staring at her through those dark-lidded eyes of his. "What's going on?"

For someone so bold just moments ago, it appears his brave frontier had only been temporary. It disperses only seconds after her question, instead leaving a nervous fidgety male in his place.

"I—uh, I kissed you." The dull comment sounds ridiculous from how obvious and unhelpful it is, yet she can't help but swoon a little internally at his face when it seems he's realized as well.

Her hand moves to grip the lifeless metal of her doorknob, the sting she receives from the cold is somehow refreshing. She swallows hard, her eyes swimming with building confusion. "What are we doing?" Because she is Ally. Label writing, pencil sharpening Ally, who always needs a motive and an explanation.

His eyes are wide and impatient, but he's also twitchy. It seems like he's finally had an epiphany. "It felt right."

She bites her lip. "I don't know, Austin."

He sighs heavily, and his entire dauntless exterior just collapses. He suddenly looks so tired and worn out, but that's probably what happens when you hop on and off of planes as part of the job.

"I've just… it's just that I've been missing you so much more than I should have been. I've been driving myself up a wall ever since I left you earlier. I just—I just don't know what to do with myself. "

She sees the pain reflected in his eyes and her heart aches. She doesn't question the tears that cascade down her cheeks; she just grasps his fingers tighter in sincerity. "I think about you a lot, too… more than I should."

He gives her a sad little smile, gently brushing her grief away with the rough pad of his thumbs, before tenderly kissing her on the cheek. When she sniffles quietly, he pulls her entire figure in for a tight embrace, resting his chin atop her head.

After a moment of silence he speaks up. "Did you watch me in the Christmas parade?" His attempt at making conversation is appreciated, but they both knew the answer to his question.

"You were terrible," she jokes.

"Hey, it's hard to perform such an important show when you're missing your muse."

She only hugs him tighter as he nuzzles his nose into her neck.

"Hmm… when did we get so complicated?" she wonders aloud.

"A calamity," he states again, quoting himself from the previous night.

"Stop saying that!" She can't pinpoint why exactly it bothers her so much to hear him describe them as such, but perhaps it has something to do with the fact that they were supposed to be a perfect match. They were Austin and Ally: writers and rockers, partners and parachutes for the other.

She doesn't want them to be this star crossed nightmare in cliché romance tragedies. She doesn't want to imagine him with after parties, streams of girls and flashy lights while she's at home with a Lifetime movie and hot chocolate. She wants him to walk into Sonic Boom rambling about zoo animals and instruments before flashing her a carefree smile like he did when they were fifteen.

She wants to catch up with the new him. Relearn every part of him, whether it has changed, matured, or frankly just didn't exist anymore.

But that just isn't possible. He's a blooming artist in a very demanding industry. He's living the dream that she's just not meant to be a part of. The effects of flying back and forth are already beginning to show on the dark circles under his eyes. They're reminders to how hopeless their future as a couple is. The right thing to do would be to send him off to a hotel room. Let him get some rest so he's thinking straight again, and part ways as best friends. Always friends.

But he's whispering into the tufts of her hair, telling her how much he's missed her. How important she is to him, and how he doesn't want to continue without her. His voice sounds hollowed and distant, with his lips being pressed so tightly to her neck. She even thinks she hears him say he loves her for a brief second.

And she believes it.


End file.
